On February 26, 2016, I received a magazine in the mail. The only magazines I subscribe to are The Atlantic (free because I give money to NPR) and Sports Illustrated (free when I bought some baseball tickets last summer), so when I opened my mailbox to find a copy of Cosmopolitan, I figured it must have been delivered to the wrong mailbox.
But it wasn’t. My name was on the address label, along with “JAN20,” which means that I’ll be getting this magazine until January of 2020. Four years of a magazine that I last subscribed to and read religiously when I was about 20 years old. I didn’t sign up for it, but here it was.
The February 2016 issue has a sassy picture of Julianne Hough on it (I had to google who she was – Dancing With the Stars, dated Ryan Seacrest) in a one piece bathing suit of sorts. Boobs up, smiling all sexy-like (or what I assume is sexy-like – it’s a face I’ve never made in my life). The stories inside promised to tell me how to “Look Hotter NAKED!” and would give me “SEX TIPS SO HOT YOU’LL GET TURNED ON JUST READING THEM.” Well alrighty then. Let’s see what we have here.
I started flipping through the pages, and this magazine stinks. Four different perfume samples. Yuck. I ripped those out and flipped past ads for makeup and shampoo. I read a couple of articles first, but this one had my attention. Look Hotter Naked. Who doesn’t want to look hotter without clothes on?
But I know what I look like naked. A little background. I’m roughly 39.5 years old as I write this. I’m overweight (but successfully working on losing weight). I’m single, and it’s been a long time since anyone who isn’t a doctor saw me naked with the lights on, let alone in broad daylight. If you’re my age, you may know how it is. You’re too fucking old to be ashamed of what you look like naked, but you’re not exactly prancing around in a spotlight displaying the goodies when you’re hoping to be on the road to O town.
Anyway, the tips are ridiculous, and I summed them up like this on Facebook:
How to look hotter naked (according to Cosmo):
take a salt bath, brush your skin towards your heart to increase circulation, and buy some rando caffeine gel to tighten your abs.Then sit on this textured mat that makes your ass all bumpy to increase circulation (then avoid your guy or gal for half an hour while your ass is all bumpy). Don’t drink anything with bubbles. And zap yourself with electricity to tense your muscles. So basically taze yourself?
I can’t even with this bullshit.
Moisturizer! With GLITTER! And be sure to shave because OMG BODY HAIR IS GROSS.There’s something in here about not sweating. If you’re doing the fucking right, you’re probably sweating at least a little. Freeze your fat? WTF. Put bronzer EVERYWHERE! Because changing your skin tone won’t stain the fuck out of your sheets.
And these last little things!
wear a body chain! (a what?)
wear heels! (peep toes with platform heels make your ass look banging – when it’s banging into the floor because you’re naked and trying to walk and trip over yourself)
bling it on (so basically vagazziling or whatever I guess?)
dimmable lights – so you don’t look like a jackass in your body chain and heels with crystals on your labia?
Candles – but jesus h. christ have a fire extinguisher ready that the other person knows how to use when you trip and fall into the candles
Get sheets that match your blush – what in the actual fuck. My sheets kinda sorta look good with the paint in my room. They’re soft. I like them. They only match my blush if I’m going for dead chick blue.
This magazine is bullshit.
This quickly devolved into some hilarious comments from friends about how you can’t drink beer because you’ll be bloated, dying your labia to be a more appealing color, and whether they sell blush in patterns that match your warm flannel sheets.
When I was in my 20s, I was so fucking insecure about what I looked like with clothes on, let alone without any on, I probably would have happily taken some of this advice and tried them with whatever guy I was dating at the time. But thinking back to the guys I dated (and/or slept with) when I was in my 20s? Those guys didn’t give a shit about candles or whether my ass had cellulite, though I’m pretty sure one of them had a pretty wicked shoe fetish. And notice that one thing about dimmable lights? Yeah. Even in your 20s, you’re probably not prancing around with a 100 watt bulb blaring. Strip clubs have dim lighting for a reason. We all know we have flaws, and we want to hide them or at least make them a bit less obvious.
If you’re already at the point where the guy or gal is making out with you? They probably want to see you naked and don’t give a fuck if you look like Kate Upton. And if you’re a guy reading this? That girl (or guy) doesn’t care if you look like Channing Tatum. They’re just happy to be making out with you and hoping it might go “all the way” as the kids say. Or at least as the kids said when I was a kid.
I realize I’m not the target audience for Cosmo. That’s the point of this blog. But I guess I want to poke fun at the ridiculousness of this magazine and make you laugh while also sending a message that there might be something to learn from this ridiculous crap.